Save Me From The Monster
by Black Parade Marching Band
Summary: Sam's gone. Dean is left with the consequences. These consequences are different though. Its not "No TV for a week." These consequences are pain, sadness, and hatred. Towards him. Summery sucks. Abusive!John. Trigger warnings inside.


**Hi :) **

**I just want to warn you right now, this is an ABUSIVE!John story. So, lets go over the trigger warnings:**

**There will be drunk!careless!abusive !John.**

**There will be a sad!broken!suicidal!hurt!Dean.**

**This means there will be hitting, cutting, suicidal thoughts, and somewhat dark themes. If this will affect you in any way, DO NOT CONTINUE! There is also very excessive colorful language.**

**Thank you for choosing my story to read in your time :)**

**Now without any further warnings, lets get on with this.**

**XXX**

It was November, a Saturday. The date, who the fuck knows. Not Dean. Right now, Dean could care less. Because John Winchester was screaming at him, about whatever fucking thing he did wrong, again.

"I can't believe you missed its fucking heart! What the hell did I tell you to do before we went out there? I told you to do your fucking target practice! Did you?" Before Dean could even open his mouth to say, why yes, he actually practice before hand, but the shapeshifter was faster than he originally thought, John began his ranting again. "I doubt it. You were always the fucking lousy shot. If Sam were here, he would've hit that fucker spot on. I know he would've."

Dean sighed, tears stinging his eyes. He would not cry over this, there were just some meaningless words. His father was just drunk. His father knew the truth... Besides his father had done worse to him while being drunk. He still had that bruise from last week.

Ever since last year, John had been more angry than ever. And Dean knew why. Sam had run off to college to live the "normal" life. To be "Joe College". To leave his family behind, and all the memories they had.

Dean couldn't even comprehend the emotions he felt that morning when he woke up and all that there was left of his Sammy was an apology note, saying how sorry he was for leaving Dean, but how he "needed" to fulfill his college dream. It was like a fucking punch in the stomach. But now... Now, he couldn't blame Sam. Not anymore. In fact, if he had the chance now, he'd up and leave dad too.

But he can't, because if Dean wasn't here, John would head to Stanford, and do who knows what to Sam. Dean needed to keep Sam safe, even if Sam didn't know it.

"What the fuck are you thinking about? I'm fucking talking to you, you worthless idiot!" Dean snapped back in to reality when he heard his fathers harsh voice, and words.

"I'm sorry, sir." Dean said under his breath. He hung his head low, ashamed of how true John's words actually were.

He shut his eyes tightly, hearing John's footsteps come closer to his position. He looked up, and John was standing in front of him, mouth, and jaw locked, eyes hard and angry.

"Now... Dean tell me what you were thinking about. Were you thinking of running away from me? Just like Sam? Because I'll tell you right now, if you run away, I will fucking find you."

Dean heard the unspoken warning in his tone. Dean shook his head, telling John he was most certainly NOT thinking of leaving. John nodded ever so slowly, turned around, grabbed the keys off the dining table, and walked right out the door.

Dean stood still, confused. What did he do now? Was he able to leave the room? Or perhaps go to the bar? Was he allowed to call someone?

The first name that popped in his mind at that thought was Sam, but Dean knew better. He tried calling Sam once, and got his answering machine. He left a long, meaningful message about how much he missed Sam, and how things were going. Of course, he lied about it being good. Afterwards, he told Sam to call him back so they could talk for real, and not just him talking to himself.

Sam never called back.

That was over nine months ago. Dean was sure Sam listened to it, just didn't reply because he hated Dean, just like everyone fucking else did.

Everyone hated Dean, as far as he knew. Who the fuck would actually like him in the first place? Sure, there were all those meaningless drunken fucks he had with meaningless women. They liked him for his looks, and charm. If those women knew what he really did for a living, they would stay the fuck away from him.

John hated Dean's guts. Sure when John sobered, he treated Dean like he used to, but that was all fake. When your drunk, the truth comes out far more easier than it ever would hen sober.

Sam hated Dean. Sam was the one who fucking left him for crying out loud. Sure his letter said he was sorry, but that was just a letter with words that could mean everything and nothing. Sam never returned his calls, and probably wouldn't even care if he knew what dad was doing to Dean.

Who would?

Dean didn't even realize that he had started scratching at the skin of the inside of his arm with his blunt fingernails, leaving angry red lines behind, marking what he'd done. He didn't know, or understand why it felt kind of good, like some kind of relief, a way out.

Dean didn't question it. Instead of proceeding any farther, he shut off the lamp next to his bed, laid down, and closed his eyes, dreading the moment John walked back through the door.

**XXX**

**Should I continue? Or nah...? **


End file.
